


The Vow

by Pouxin



Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types, The Vow (2012)
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6494845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouxin/pseuds/Pouxin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus is in an accident and loses all memory of Esca</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to this prompt [here](http://the-eagle-kink.livejournal.com/2834.html?thread=3681298#t3681298%20from%20the_eagle_kink), based on the plot line to the movie 'The Vow', but with Esca essentially as Channing Tatum's character, and Marcus as Rachel McAdams' character (confused yet? ;-)) More parts to follow. 
> 
> Warnings: None for this part, really. Some mildly homophobic sentiments from Marcus' dad (he's alive, folks, alive!) General angsting.

Later these moments will take on a startling clarity; a vibrancy, a power, they never had as they were happening. They were so perfect, perfect in their ordinariness. The dark of the car, the amber glow of streetlamps hazy in the brittle air, the snow falling gentle as apple blossom. Marcus in that stupid wool hat. Thick neck swaddled in a scarf. Blowing on his large, calloused hands as he rubbed them together. Seeing Esca rolling his eyes.

“Hey, I grew up in Mississippi, we barely even knew what winter was. I feel the cold.”

“You’ve lived here for _nineteen years_. You need to harden the fuck up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Fancy helping me, uh, ‘harden the fuck up?’”

And Esca is smiling, like he always does when Marcus says something smutty, because it is so rare, so unexpectedly thrilling; and he is also thinking _oh you_ because Marcus is an idiot, big and goofy; and he still thinks that hat is stupid – he is comparing it with his own winter wear, his beloved red jacket, a McQueen no less, and other, nastier parts of him are thinking _I wish my husband was more stylish, I wish we were one of_ those _couples_ – but then these thoughts are all banished because Marcus is leaning over to kiss him. These moments. The cool casual curve of the wheel under his hands, forgotten about in the anticipation of the more desired sensation of Marcus’ mouth, his lips. The way Marcus’ green eyes narrow and cloud as he moves closer, as he fills them with Esca. The desire in them, the love, the want, the trust – all these things Esca has become so accustomed to, so easy with – that Marcus loves him, that Marcus wants him – so confident in. Thinking Marcus one day wouldn’t love him is the same as thinking about stopping breathing, his mind simply skitters away from it, can not hold it still enough to weigh its magnitude, to take its measure. It is possible, yet it is not _possible_ – it reminds Esca of the title of the Hirst work he covered in the retrospective he wrote for ArtReview Magazine: _the physical impossibility of death in the mind of someone living_. And here are these moments, themselves suspended in formaldehyde, backlit with the poignancy of hindsight. Marcus’ face, momentarily in sharp relief, the glare of the truck’s headlights bleaching out his features, white, noise, white, noise. 

Sometimes Esca wishes that was the last moment. That there were no more after that. Sometimes he wishes he had died. Sometimes, in his secret, dark heart, in the place he hides and never speaks of, in the place he has never shown anyone, ever, except maybe Marcus, Marcus who loved him anyway, who loved him _because_ …sometimes Esca wishes Marcus had died. 

But that is not what happened.

What happened is that Esca died for Marcus, the memory of who he was, of what they were, went away forever. What happened is the unimaginable. _Living without Marcus’ love_.

And now it is real. Now it is happening. 

 

*****

 

Esca sits, and he waits. Each breath hurts, a constant dull ache in his side, ebbing and flowing. He has cracked a rib, is lucky not to have done more. Occasionally he rubs absently at the dark clot of bruises along his chest, under his heart; or runs his tongue over the split on his lips, hard enough to break the tender new skin and start it bleeding again, glad for the alkali sting of his spit against the wound. Anything to take away from the pain of seeing Marcus lying there, so still and fragile. Esca does not like the feeling, of not being in control. Everything about his life is controlled now. After the chaos of his parents’ death, he has been so measured, so resolved, so free from the headlong rush into emotional danger that others engage in so carelessly. Life would never do that to him again, hurt him like that, he had made a vow. Nobody would take anything from him that he wasn’t prepared to give up. And yet here he is, powerless, broken, life has found a way again, as always. The gods laugh at his hubris. If they take… If he loses… But he cannot think on it. 

_Marcus_. He is so…beautiful. Unlike Esca, who looks like he has done a few rounds in the ring, there is barely a mark on Marcus, just a small shaved patch on the right side of his head covered with a soft white gauze and some neat strips of surgical tape. In every other way, he could just be sleeping. At home, in their bed, waiting for Esca to wake him with a kiss; with a good natured elbow to the side; with a cup of disgustingly strong coffee; with a flick to his Dumbo ears; with a copy of the New York Times; with an exploratory hand journeying down his taut stomach. 

_Marcus_. His normally tanned, vibrant face, now slack and pale, only serves to emphasise the surprisingly plushness of his lips, the thick dark sweep of his smudgey lashes, soft against his cheeks. Esca has never felt so in love with him as he does in this moment, he feels torn up with it, like love is an eagle ripping with its talons – his belly, his lungs, his heart. But there is nothing he can do now, the eagle had him marked as likely prey long ago, from that first slow, smouldering glance between them, and Esca will not give him the pleasure of twisting in his grip. He will bear this pain stoically, like all the rest. So he sits, and he waits. 

Esca is asleep, fitful, dreaming one of those fever dreams where landscapes shift and fracture under your feet and nothing will stay still. Running, he is running, he has left Marcus behind, and it is very important that he _gets help now_. But he is tired, so tired, and the air is so cold it cuts into his lungs, slices down the left-hand side of his ribcage with every breath, burns against his mouth, hooks its fingers in to the soft sockets of his eyes. _Marcus!_ Sensing some tiny alteration somewhere, some subtle movement in the boundaries of consciousness, Esca jerks violently awake. His eyes snap open, and he springs to his feet.

“Nurse. Nurse!”

A woman comes hurrying over, blue uniform creased, dark hair pulled back into a messy bun. She looks bone-tired, too worn down with care to be irritated at Esca’s curt tone. She raises an eyebrow by way of question, and as she does so Marcus’ eyelids flicker, and then slowly open. If she is surprised, she doesn’t show it. Esca supposes she must have seen this kind of thing before; when people know each other as well as him and Marcus, when they are this in tune with each other’s rhythms, with the slow glide between wake and sleep, between sickness and health, it can’t be that strange when they know the other is about to open their eyes.

Marcus blinks slowly, then grimaces and opens his lips, croaking something unintelligible. The nurse supports his head as she gives him a sip of water from the glass at the side of his bed. Marcus takes a long, greedy swallow, then almost gags.

“Can you tell me your name?” the nurse asks him brusquely. 

“Marcus. Marcus Aquila. Where… where am I?” he manages. The relief that pours through Esca is like nothing else he has ever felt before, a blaze of it, fierce and refreshing, a cascading waterfall along the hot iron of his soul. Marcus is awake, he is talking, he is _alive_.

“Marcus, you’re in the hospital, you were in a car accident,” the nurse says, removing a torch from her pocket and shining it into the bright, pale moss of Marcus’ eyes. He winces and squints. “Take my hand. Squeeze. Good.” He still hasn’t looked at Esca. Look at me, Esca thinks, _darling_. He has never been one for endearments, for pet names or cuteness (although there are some names, lovers’ names, that Esca uses when they are together, but only when he is deep inside Marcus, riding him hard and so far gone he can hardly tell where he ends and Marcus begins) but all he can think now is _love, darling, sweetheart, baby_. But another feeling joins his relief, swimming hard upstream like a salmon, the sharp silver leap of fear. Something is off with Marcus, something is not right, Esca can smell it on him.

“Any pain?” Esca asks.

“My head hurts,” Marcus rasps.

“That’s normal. You hurt your head, but you’re alright now. I’ll get you something for the pain,” the nurse says, soothing now, and Esca can tell she is also relieved. _It was worse than they said_ , Esca thinks, _I knew it was worse than they said_.   
For the first time Marcus looks at Esca.

“Was anyone else hurt, Doctor?” he asks blearily. 

“Uh….” Esca looks at the nurse, hoping for some sort of explanation, confirmation that this isn’t what it sounds like, _can’t be what it sounds like_. “Marcus… you know who I am, right?”

“Yeah,” Marcus’ eyes are deep, clear, full of understanding. Esca feels relief come flooding back, rampant, victorious as the tide. He laughs, rolls his eyes, _silly_.

“OK, good!”

“You’re my doctor.”

 

*******

 

**Things Marcus has forgotten #112**

_Honeymoon, Greece_

Marcus is still damp from the sea, sprawled across his towel like a large, happy dog, basking.

Esca is sat in the shade, upright on his sun lounger, glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose. Every time he pushes them back up the sweat causes them to slide down again. He sighs noisily and adjusts his notepad on his lap. 

Marcus shields his eyes against the sun and squints across at him.

“What’cha doin’?”

“Making notes on exhibitions to review when we get back,” Esca replies, without looking up from his papers.

Marcus digests this for a while.

“Come and lie in the sunshine with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I burn like a box full of newspaper.”

“What was the point in coming to a hot country then?” Marcus asks.

“The culture.”

“But we haven’t done anything cultural. We’ve been too busy… you know…” Marcus waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Also part of ancient Greek culture.”

“Strangely, not part they focused on at school,” Marcus says.

“You should’ve gone to school in England.”

“I _did_ go to school in England.”

“You should have gone to school with me.”

Marcus smiles. He rolls to the edge of his towel, and raises one warm, blunt finger to trace along the swirling edge of Esca’s tattoo, making Esca shiver. 

“We should get some of these,” Marcus says lazily. 

“What?”

“Tattoos. Something for us.”

“Are you serious?” Esca finally looks up from his notes, amazed.

“Yeah, why not?”

“ _You_ want _us_ to get _tattoos_?”

“Hmmmm”, Marcus traces his finger further down Esca’s arm, finds the delicate hollow of his elbow, the silky sweep of his underarm, soft as sifted flour. His hand drifts back upwards again, over the ridges of his ribs, the fluting arcs of his pelvis, the curve of his belly. Then he slides his hand under Esca’s back, kneading his knuckles into the base of Esca’s spine, making him arch his back with pleasure like a cat. “Maybe something here.”

Esca raises one sharp eyebrow. “You want us to get tattoos on the _bottom of our backs?_ ”

“Sure.”

“You want us to get slag tags?”

“What now?” Marcus asks.

“Tramp stamps. You know.”

“Mmmmm,” Marcus gives him a warm, easy smile, letting the corners tilt up enough towards his eyes for Esca to know he is being wicked. He knows how Esca feels about him being wicked. It’s a secret, special Marcus, one only Esca gets to see, beneath all the layers of earnestness and respectability. Sometimes Esca thinks Marcus’ badness smile is the only single perfect thing in the universe, a note of perfect clarity among all the scratchy dust and errors. “You know where it originated from?”

“The trailer park?”

“No. Early Indian tribes used to brand their lovers there, so other men would know they belonged to someone else. You know, when they were bent over…” Marcus trails off, swiping his trapped thumb along the small of Esca’s back, underneath the waistband of his swimming trunks, down towards the crease of his buttocks. 

“That’s probably not true…,” Esca retorts weakly. “It sounds like something you read about on Wikipedia. You, of all people, should know that’s not a valid reference source…”

“I want you to belong to me,” Marcus says quietly, hotly, still with the bad Marcus smile. _Marcus_.

“Marcus,” Esca holds up his left hand, the platinum band glinting in the broad sunlight, “I do belong to you. I am already clearly marked. But you can come and piss on the corner of my sunlounger if you like.”

Marcus flexes his knuckles again, burrowing them into the cool knots of Esca’s back. He places his warm lips against the fine hairs on Esca’s forearm and looks up at him, eyes greener than the sea.

“So you don’t want to, then?”

“What would we get?” Esca asks, despite himself.

“Something for us. Just for us. An eagle?”

“I’d get an eagle,” Esca replies, “ _Aquila_. You’d get a raven. And we’d probably both get Hepatitis, given the state of the tattoo parlours I’ve seen down the sea front.”

“Come on,” Marcus says, “Let’s do it. We can’t be boring now we’re smug marrieds. We need to live life dangerously.”

And he smiles the dangerous smile, and raises his head up for Esca to kiss.

 

*******

 

“Marcus.” This is what it felt like after his parents and his brothers died, this feeling like vertigo, everything spinning too far, too fast, out of his grip. Esca feels like he has been left alone on the edge of the world, staring into the void that his life will become. “I’m not… It’s _me_. Esca. I’m your husband.”

Marcus scrunches his entire face up in consternation, and blinks hard, staring at Esca as if he is some sort of apparition. 

“Esca. Esca MacCunoval,” Esca tries again after a while. 

“My…what? My… _husband_? Is this some kind of joke?”

“No!” Esca can feel the sharp nips of panic, biting at his chest, his stomach, his throat. He holds up his hand, the one where the wedding band has sat these past three years, a daily reminder that there is someone in the world who loves him enough to tie their life to his, to lie alongside him forever. He reaches with it then and uses it to grasp Marcus’ large warm hand, lying slack against the hospital linen, pressing the rings together. “We’re married. We’ve been married for three years. Don’t you remember?” Marcus jerks his hand away from Esca’s as if it is scorching into him.

“We’re _married_?” He makes some inarticulate noises of disbelief, anger, distress. “I’m not even… _gay_! My girlfriend is Cottia McCormick and she has been for the past 5 years.”

Esca gapes at him. He feels like his mind is frozen. He can’t even think. How? What?

“Marcus!”

“Mr MacCunoval,” the nurse is pressing gently on his arm, “It’s perhaps best if you come with me. It’s clear Marcus is having some problems and it’s very important we run some tests straight away. You’re only going to upset yourself, and Marcus, if you stay here now. Let’s come into the corridor and we can discuss this.”

“No!” Esca shrugs her off, angry, “I’m not leaving him. Marcus! I’m not leaving here until you _tell me that you remember me_.”

Marcus is breathing heavily, matching his breaths to Esca’s. The colour is high in his cheeks, and his eyes are bright with something that looks like fear. Their gazes lock for a long, hot second. Esca can hear his blood thundering in his ears, his stomach lurching with sea-sickness. With every fibre of his being he wills Marcus to come back to him, to exist for him again, to be his. This is _Marcus_.

“Marcus, it’s _me_. Please,” he says, and he sees something in Marcus’ face soften. _Yes. Yes, yes, darling_. 

Then Marcus looks away.

“I don’t know who you are,” he says, slower now, “I’ve never seen you before in my life. And I want you to leave.”

 

******

 

**Things Marcus has forgotten #11,353**

_The Proposal_

 

Esca feels like if he eats one more thing – one more tiny thing – he’s going to be sick. That’s when Marcus emerges from the kitchen clutching the giant M&M bag, looking strangely anxious.

“No, no, Marcus, if I put one of those things in my mouth that last Yorkshire pudding is going to end up all over the settee cushions. And that would be a shame.”

“Because I make even better Yorkshire puddings than your granny?”

“Because it’s a really expensive sofa.”

“Aw, come on Esca, it’s date night. My lovely home-cooked dinner and a movie. You can’t have movies without M&Ms.”

“Films.”

“Films.”

Esca shoots Marcus a quizzical look. Marcus _never_ concedes to Esca on this point, even when he repeatedly, ardently makes the case for calling films ‘films’, and not – urgh – ‘movies’. Something is definitely up.

“OK,” he says as Marcus sits down carefully beside him on their (expensive) sofa. “But if I get Peanut Death I’m not going to be happy.”

“’Peanut Death’. Strangely not the tagline that Mars went with.”

They often play Russian Roulette with M&Ms (from the giant shop in Piccadilly Circus that stocks all the US flavours. “I honestly think the day that store opened was the happiest day of my life,” Marcus would say, grinning delightedly). Esca lives in fear of getting the dreaded peanut flavour. He doesn’t even like it when Marcus kisses him after he’s been munching his way through the leftovers. In fact, even the thought of peanuts, after the massive roast dinner and best part of two bottles of fancy red wine, is making his stomach shift and groan with protest.

“You know, actually, I just can’t.”

“Pick one!” Marcus says. He’s trying for jovial, but his voice has a weird, strained quality to it that Esca hasn’t heard before. He seems… nervous. Esca quirks his eyebrows at him as he reluctantly dips his hand into the open mouth of the packet. And there is the ring, nestled among the hard little nuggets of chocolate. He knows what it is, knows before he’s even seen it.

“Marcus…? Is this…?”

Marcus’ eyes are a dark, spiraling green.

“Yes. This is.”

Esca leaves it in the bag for a minute, hidden from sight, the tips of two of his fingers dancing along the curl of its cool metal belly.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“It is for me. It’s always been for me. You know that. Is it for you?”

Esca looks and looks into Marcus’ endless eyes; the colour of enchanted childhood forests, where fairytales are made. There are bad things there, scary things, dragons and witches, and worse, fathers who don’t love you enough, wolves posing as allies, stepmothers who ask huntsmen to cut out your heart. For a second, Esca is scared of those eyes, of that life, of it just being Marcus, for him, forever. But he knows there are also wonderful, magical things in those woods, sprites and unicorns, and princes who can bring you back to life with just one kiss.

“Yes, it’s for me. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Marcus smiles, and it’s one of the most beautiful things Esca has ever seen. They kiss, tasting of gravy and booze, but it’s one of the sweetest kisses Esca has ever known. He lets the heavy slide of the ring settle around his finger.

“I love you,” he says, softly.

“I know. And I love spending time with you too,” Marcus whispers back.

“Wanker,” Esca laughs, “I hate that one.”

“You invented that one.” And he pops a peanut M&M into Esca’s mouth.

 

***************

 

Esca sits slumped in the waiting area, his back pressed against the cool of the drinks machine, his legs splayed in front of him. He threads his hands through the greasy, unwashed mess of his hair, lets his palms press hard against the cut across his mouth; hard, harder, until he can feel the hot flush of blood squeeze out through the tears in the soft skin. He doesn’t think of Marcus’ mouth. Its lush softness. He doesn’t think of Marcus laughing against his lips, the gentle huff of air, warm and fragrant with Marcus’ secret inside smell. 

“Mr MacCunoval?”

Esca snaps his head up, eyes focusing in, suddenly sharp and alert, on the face of the woman standing in front of him. He springs quickly to his feet, feeling the sharp stab of protest from his cracked left rib. It feels like a damp, livid, white spike, savagely thrusting its way towards his heart. Pale, pink, Hallmark heart. Esca hates himself for this weakness.

“Yes. What…. What…?”

“It would appear… With Marcus… There’s been some damage.” She looks awkward; chooses her words awkwardly. Esca thinks: surely she must be used to this by now. He wants polished, smooth. He wants someone who is going to tell him everything is alright. He wants someone who will make him believe it. “The good news is, there appears to be no _permanent_ damage done to cognitive function. Given time, and therapy, he should be able to lead a perfectly normal life.”

“He doesn’t remember me!” Esca practically shouts. _Normal life? Normal life?_ He wonders if this woman has any concept of what the word ‘normal’ means.

“His memory is going to improve with time,” she says, and now she sounds like a doctor should: calm, reassuring. Esca feels his shoulders sag, the air flood from that tight place in his chest where he has been holding it.

“You mean, he’ll remember me? He’ll remember who he is?”

“Well…”

The hesitation is fatal. It is a sling shot straight to the centre of Esca’s soaring happiness. It falls to the ground, feathery, hopeless. 

“Mr MacCunoval, you have to understand, with an injury like Marcus’…. Well, there’s no guarantee. There’s a lot we don’t know. The MRI revealed damage to the right ventral frontal cortex and underlying white matter, including the uncinate fasciculus - ” She catches Esca’s uncomprehending look, blank with pain, and pauses. “That’s a band of fibres previously thought to mediate retrieval of specific events from one's personal past.”

“Previously…?”

“Well, we don’t know, the neuroscience is lagging a bit behind the…. But with Marcus… It certainly would seem there is some issue with episodic memory. He thinks it’s 2001.”

“He….? _What_? What the fuck?”

The doctor looks at him sympathetically, eyes bright behind her glasses. 

“Yes. We can work with him – with you – on that. In the mean time, I can refer you to one of our counselors? I can - ”

“He thinks it’s _two thousand and one?_ ”

“Yes.”

“So he thinks he’s…what… 19?”

“Yes.”

“He thinks he’s… _straight_?”

“He has been talking about…his _confusion_ over having a… husband, yes.”

Esca feels something like a primal howl of pain start in that closed-in space in his chest, the place where everything has come crashing down, dust and splinters. He sputters, bites at his lips again, wanting the pain. He thinks of the Tracey Enim exhibition he reviewed for _Pop_. He thinks of Marcus, holding his hand, looking at her video installation: “I just don’t get it”. He thinks: _every part of me is bleeding_.

“I….I….”  
He can see now how memory is a tenuous thing, because somehow he is in a small room with Monet prints on the wall, and a middle aged woman is handing him some tissues, and he has no idea how he got there. More importantly, he has no idea how he can get back. Back to Marcus. Back to their life.

 

********

 

**Things Marcus Has Forgotten #212**

_September 2009, Honeymoon_

 

They’re lying in the prickly grass that leads down to the sand dunes. Esca has that pleasant drunk-not-quite-drunk feeling, the liquor skipping and dancing in his veins.

“The lack of light pollution here is amazing.”

“Mmm.” Esca can’t really bring himself to talk. He just wants this: the balmy night air, the smell of salt, the warm press of Marcus’ arm against his own.

“You can see the whole milky way.” Marcus arcs one blunt thumb across the skyscape.

“Yeah.”

“You’re the artist. You should be more into this stuff. It’s stunning. The light, the patterns. It looks like something from Star Trek.”

“Philistine,” Esca mutters.

Marcus shifts his head in the sand; Esca can feel the greeny dampness of his faux-hurt gaze.

“How have I offended your delicate intellectual sensitivities this time?”

“This thing you always have about comparing things in real life to things in films-”

“Movies,” Marcus corrects.

“ _Films_. Philistine. _American_ philistine.”

“I love how you make being an American sound worse than being a Philistine.” Marcus nudges him with his elbow.

“They’re basically interchangeable.”

“Racist.”

“Anyway. This thing. With the _films_. It makes you look shallow and uninteresting and… like a bit of a geeky loser.” Esca finally shifts his head in its sandy furrow, so Marcus can feel the full force of his pity.

“I _am_ a bit of a geeky loser, Esca. I thought we’d established that. You should leave me. You should find some fellow tortured artist, who looks at the stars and sees Van Gough, or maybe some obscure poem by some overlooked Argentinean dissident. And, anyway…”

“I know, I know. You meant the original Star Trek and not the rubbish film remake, it’s a televisual tour de force, I’m a culture Nazi, blah blah blah.”

“Well, yes. Except, the film remake is _not_ rubbish. It’s actually a very clever reconception of-”

Esca rolls his eyes. “Marcus. Take me to bed – now – or lose me forever.”

“Esca! That’s from Top Gun. That’s a _Hollywood blockbuster_ that was practically funded by the _United States Army_. And you have the gall to call _me_ …”

“I’m serious.”

Marcus stops what he’s saying, rolls over abruptly and kisses him, hard, using his bulk to practically squash the air from Esca’s lungs. Esca puts a hand against Marcus’ hair, the softness of it. Just this. Marcus’ weight on him. The measure of Marcus. He feels the beginnings of Marcus’ erection stirring against his hip.

“You big stud.”

“You know it, baby.”

********

 

Esca showers in the hospital bathroom, bending his body awkwardly to try to avoid getting the tight wrap of bandages round his lower torso soaking wet. He puts on the clothes Doug has brought him.

“Esca, thank god,” Doug had said, taking Esca into an eye watering hug, his damaged rib spiking with alarm. He’d wanted to see Marcus, but Esca had told him it wasn’t a good idea.

“He’s still pretty groggy with the pain meds. And anyway, he won’t know who you are.”

“So he doesn’t remember anything after 2001?”

Esca had shrugged.

“He doesn’t remember _you_?”

“It would appear that way.”

The warm sympathetic sludge of Doug’s brown eyes was almost too much for Esca to bear.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Every time he sees Marcus, Esca hopes against hope that something will have shifted, that Marcus will remember him again, that the love will come out in his eyes once more, like sunshine from behind the clouds. It hasn’t happened.

Now he makes his way back along the wards. Marcus has been moved to a private room, in the newly refurbished Neuro area. He slides his eyes across when Esca walks in, struggles to sit up. 

“Hey, let me help you,” Esca says reflexively, reaching to place a hand under Marcus’ armpit, one against the flat of his back.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Marcus flinches away from Esca’s hands as if they might burn him, green eyes thick with distrust. Esca thinks of Marcus bending into his hands like a cat, pushing his skin against every fleeting touch, basking in the feel of Esca’s fingers. He remembers Marcus, breathless with desire; eyes open, fluid, wanting. “ _Esca – put your hands on me_.” Esca notices Marcus’ hands are bare. Marcus’ wedding ring is lying on the table beside the bed. The spike in Esca’s heart twists and rips.

“Why, worried I might turn you gay?” Esca snides, before he can stop himself.

Marcus looks at him levelly. “It would appear you’ve already had some success in that area.”

Esca sighs, lets himself sink into the chair alongside Marcus’ bed. He puts his hands into his still damp hair. Marcus is alive. He needs to focus on this. Be happy, be grateful. Marcus is _alive_. He lifts his head, meets Marcus’ familiar eyes. Stranger’s eyes.

“Just for the record, you were already 100 percent into guys when I met you. It wasn’t like I was your first or anything.”

“If you say so.”

“Marcus, you must have _some idea_. We’ve talked about this – you said you always felt attracted to men, growing up. ”

Marcus looks away and to the side, clenching his jaw and twisting his mouth into something approximating a wry smile, but looking more like a snarl. “Right. Well. You seem to know more about how I feel than I do.”

Esca takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I know this is difficult, but I can’t believe that you… Look at this way, all the hard work is done for you. You’re out. Everyone knows you’re gay. Everyone’s fine with it.”

“And my father?” Marcus asks, “My father knows I’m _gay_? My father’s _fine_ with it?”

“Ah, uh…” Esca pauses, thinking about the two times he’s met Flavius. Well, met is probably too strong a word – encountered him. “No, I guess. He uh… he didn’t take it that well. From what you’ve told me. He was pretty angry.”

“And now?” Marcus asks. “How does he feel now? I mean, with us being married and everything. What’s our relationship like now?”

“Well, uh, I guess you don’t really have a relationship with him.”

“I don’t really _have a relationship_? With _my father_?” Marcus looks stricken.

“You’ve kind of come to terms with it, Marcus. You’ve got your Uncle and…”

“Would _you_ come to terms with it? Not having a relationship with your father?” Marcus interrupts. 

“My father’s dead,” Esca responds quietly, and Marcus’ face momentarily softens.

“Look I’m sorry about that, but I can’t just sit here and listen to some…stranger…tell me about everything that’s wrong between me and my father. He’s my dad. I…love him.”

Marcus looks like he might cry. Despite everything, Esca’s heart aches for him. He wants to reach out and touch Marcus’s warm, brown hand, but he doesn’t.

“I know you do,” he says gently. “But he was always kind of an arsehole to you Marcus, right? After your mum died. With the business. All that dodgy stuff he was involved with. Spending all your mum’s money she’d put in trust for you, and then selling all the family heirlooms to try and realize some capital. You were really angry with him. You said he stopped being your dad when you were about 9 years old. You said after that it was like…”

Marcus raises both hands in the air, as if he’s about to clamp them over his ears. Esca hesitates.

“Yes, thanks, I remember all that stuff. I don’t need you to give me some weird play-by-play of how I’ve felt about my dad.”

“Marcus, you haven’t even really tried… You don’t even want to fix things. I’ve… I’ve encouraged you, you know, and you’ve just said, no, you’re not interested, you don’t need him. You said he was toxic and…”

“Would you just stop,” Marcus snaps. “Stop. DON’T tell me what I think about this. It’s creepy. I don’t know you, and I don’t want you inside my head like this. It feels like a violation.”

Esca thinks about all the soft secrets he’s coaxed from Marcus, all the conversations they’ve shared about their childhoods, about Marcus and his dad, gentle words whispered between them in their bed at night, or sitting out on the balcony in the haze of a summery dusk, or over the phone in the early days of their relationship. This isn’t knowledge that has come to him lightly, it has been hard work to know Marcus, to make him relax enough to let Esca in, to show him everything, the soft, pale underbelly of his heart. 

And now that’s all gone. 

“OK. Sorry.” He gets up quietly and leaves the room.

 

**************

 

**Things Marcus has forgotten #13 - #26**

_Glasgow Museums Resource Centre, April 2007; London, later_

“That guy’s back again,” Fiona says. “Aquila. The one who’s buying the Capriolo.”

Esca feels his mouth set into a thin, hard line. “I thought we’d talked about that. I thought the Fogg Library…”

“He’s offering, like, 20% over the estimate. There’s no way McKannavaugh will say no to that.”

Esca forces back his chair with a scrape of wood on tile, pushes his thick framed glasses back up his nose.

“Esca,” Fiona says warningly, but she has that secret, pleased look on her face. She loves it when Esca makes one of his scenes.

Esca stalks out into the gallery, feeling the blood racing hot and vivid through his veins. The buyer has his back to him, is turned to face the painting high up on the wall, hands thrust in his pockets, thick shoulders straining against the expensive cut of his suit jacket.

“Just think, soon you’ll be the only person to get to look at,” Esca says softly; soft and stinging, like acid.

“Huh?” the guy turns quickly, confusion moving gently across his big-featured face.

“It was going to go to a public library in London, you know. Somewhere people could see it, admire it. Learn. But I’m sure it will look far better in one of your corporation’s faceless board rooms.”

The guy – Aquila – still looks perplexed, but the colour starting to rise on his broad cheekbones suggests he hasn’t entirely failed to grasp Esca’s meaning.

“Do you work here?” he asks. “Because I can tell you, I don’t expect to be spoken to like that by someone who…”

“Yes, I’m sure you don’t expect to be spoken to like this by people you’re paying. I’m sure you want only pathetic gratitude. _Oh thank you sir, thank you so much for buying our painting, now I can afford a whole roast chicken, and my children can have shoes_. Well, guess what, rich boy. I don’t give a shit what you do and don’t expect. I work here because I actually _like art_ , not to kiss arse all day to nouveau riche wankers, who think money can buy them class. Or integrity.”

Aquila shifts back on his feet. Esca saw he was big – tall and strong – from the minute he walked out of the office, but now he notices the guy actually looks like he could handle himself. He looks quick, solider-like. Esca wonders how mad he’d have to make him to get him to hit him, here, in the middle of the gallery. That would be fun. Aquila swallows, runs a hand through his hair.

“Look, um… This is kind of weird. I don’t know what you’re so angry about, but I’m just….”

“Don’t know what I’m so angry about? You, that’s what I’m so angry about. Art belongs where people can see it! Not in some fucking locked vault in a high security bank in Switzerland. People like you look at a piece of art, and instead of seeing beauty, you see dollar signs. It makes me sick.”

Aquila actually has the grace to look somewhat abashed. “I know… that’s not what I’m doing… I… Look, not that it’s any of your business, and not that I don’t think you’re incredibly rude – and, like, _unhinged_ or something – but that painting used to belong to my family. Then my dad sold…”

“See, there you go again talking about it as if it’s some commodity, to be traded and harangued over and then hoarded as some kind of status symbol.”

“No – it’s not. I don’t want to ‘hoard’ it. You can keep it in the museum, I don’t care! I just want it to be _mine_. I can’t explain…” Aquila’s eyes have gone a very dark green, the flush in his cheeks – embarrassment? Anger? Esca isn’t sure – throwing his heavy features into softer relief. He is very handsome, Esca notices. And young. Not their normal clientele. The observation, his own response to it, makes a fresh wash of frustrated rage rush through him.

“No need,” Esca spits, narrowing his eyes. “Spoilt little rich boy always gets what he wants. ‘I just want it to be mine’. Well, fucking have it. I’m sure daddy’s money will buy you the whole bloody gallery, if that’s what you want.”

Aquila’s face hardens. “It’s not my father’s money.”

“Whatever.”

“No, listen. I made that money _myself_. It’s not my _father’s money_.”

“Whatever.”

But Esca had wanted to fuck him even then, had wanted to slam him up against the painting they were fighting over and grind his mouth onto him, bite at the plush privileged lushness of his lips, push inside him hard and angry, rip and tear at him until he was as wounded and messy and dirty and fucked up as Esca. 

The irony was their first kiss was nothing like that. It wasn’t until months afterwards, and it was tender and gentle and they were careful with each other, lips soft and glancing, fingers trembling. 

But there were always two first kisses for Esca; the imagined one, and the real one.

He’d told Marcus about it, later; and Marcus smiled the smile that made his eyes crinkle up, that made Esca think of what he might look like when he was an old man, when they’d had most of their lives together.

“Mmmmm. Angry art gallery fucking. I would have been up for that.”

“You _would not_. I’d just called you a spoilt daddy’s boy or something. You were furiously angry with me. If I’d have touched you, I think you’d have punched me in the face.”

“Ha, well, maybe I’d have touched you instead. Pushed you up against the fabled Aquila painting. Bit you. Fucked you.”

“Nice try, Marcus. You’re far too straight to get off with some stranger in a public place.”

“Wanna bet?”

“No. I have no desire to watch you to get off with a stranger. There might well be face punching going on if that were to happen.”

“How about we compromise and I get off with you in a public place? In an art gallery? Hmmm?”

Marcus’ voice has gone low and silky. Esca can hear his heart thundering in his ears.

“OK.”

“OK. We’ll see how, um, ‘straight’ I am.”

“I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

“I know.”

Marcus’ badness smile.

 

******

 

Cottia greets Esca in the smart, muted purple of the Neuro ward 'visitor' room. She looks tired, her skin pale and curdled under her freckles. She hugs him hard, then touches his lip.

"Jesus, Esca."

"You should see the other guy," Esca jokes lamely. 

"Sorry it took me a while to get here, I had to find someone to look after my aunt for me, and my sister was being a bitch about it, as usual. How is he?"

Esca fights to keep his face from crumpling. "He's been asking after you," he says, simply. He's given her the basic outline of Marcus' diagnosis over the phone, and now she scrunches her mouth at him in sympathy. He has to look away, feeling the desperate sting of tears starting in the bones under his face. 

She lets out a low whistle as Esca leads her down the corridor.

"This doesn't look very NHS. Who's paying for all this? Not Flavius, surely?"

"Nah," Esca says, "Marcus has some shit hot medical insurance with the studio. BUPA's finest. You know what a planner he is. Was." Who knows what Marcus is like now. This stranger with Marcus' face.

He pauses at the door to Marcus' room, then knocks. Since when did he and Marcus have to knock for each other? The talons in his heart draw ever tighter.

"Come." Even Marcus' voice sounds different; tighter, harder. Marcus doesn't bother to hide his irritation when he sees Esca enter the room, but then his gaze travels to what's behind him. “Cottia!” And Marcus' whole face lights up like the sun coming out from behind the clouds of his eyes. That's the expression Esca has been waiting these past few days to see. The only thing is, he thought it would be him it was directed at.

Cottia smiles, and stoops to kiss his cheek. "Hullo, Marcus. I’m surprised you recognize me, I’m such a haggard old crone these days.”

“Don’t be stupid, you don’t look a day over 17,” Marcus replies, grinning. He just stares at her, smiling, for a long beat, then takes her hand, pulls her down to sit on the bed. "God, you look good. I can't tell you what a relief it is to see someone I actually recognise! I've been feeling like I'm going mad!" He squeezes her hand. "Thank you," he says, quietly, "thank you for coming. Thank you."

Esca feels awkward, like he's intruded on two lovers having a reunion after months, years apart. It feels like when one of his brothers would bring a girl back, and his mam would make him sit with them in the lounge with the TV on in the background, like some sort of junior chaperone. But he can't think about his brothers. Not now. 

"Well, I'll, uh... I'll go and get us some coffees or something." 

Marcus doesn't even look at him. "Not for me, thanks," he says. Even though he normally has to have two double espressos before he can even leave the house in the morning.

"Marcus doesn't like coffee," Cottia says, giving Esca a _sorry-to-do-this-to-you_ look.

"Thank you!" Marcus practically explodes. "I have to keep telling everyone that! Apparently I'm addicted to the stuff, but it tastes like shit, so. I'll just have a water, thanks."

Esca goes back to the visitor room and sits. He sits for a long time. He tries to make his mind go totally blank, and he must succeed at some point, because when Cottia comes back in it takes him a few moments before he can focus on her. She puts a hand on his shoulder. 

"Hey, look, Esc, I'll stay with him this evening, OK? You should go home and get some rest. You look exhausted."

Esca lets out a dry laugh. "Yeah, OK. I'm sure you and your _boyfriend_ have a lot to catch up on."

"Come on Esca, you know it's not like that. We broke up seven years ago. Because he was _gay_! And now he's married. To you. So. It's just... He's just happy to see a familiar face, that's all."

Esca knows what she is saying is right, he knows he sounds like an idiot, but he can't stop himself. He's always felt so safe, so protected in the warm circle of Marcus' love; and before that he never cared about anything enough to worry about losing it. _So this is what jealousy feels like then_ , he thinks. It's worse than his cracked ribs, but not as bad as the feeling of panic in his chest when he thinks about Marcus not loving him. 

So he goes home, and sleeps on Marcus' side of the bed, where the sheets still smell like him, and the pillows still dip to the shape of his head, back when it was heavy with memories. 

 

*******

 

In the two weeks since the accident Esca's body has started to heal, but inside he still feels rubbed raw, all knobs of battered gristle and delicate tendrils of damaged nerve. It feels like everything is falling apart. He'd had a phone call from Fiona that morning.

"Can we expect you back at the gallery any time soon?"

"It's difficult, Fe. With Marcus..."

"I know that Esca, but people are asking for you. They want _you_. I don't want to hassle you, I know you're having a shit time of it, but with the finances as they are..."

"I know, I know. One more week. One more week, OK? Marcus should be home by then. Things will be back to normal."

Even as he says it Esca realises he no longer has any idea what normal means.

Still, he isn't ready for the lurch in his guts when he enters Marcus' hospital room to see a tall, lean figure in an exquisite navy suit leaning against the window sill looking out at the dull grey car park. Iron grey hair curls down over a crisp white shirt collar. The man turns. His eyes are Marcus', soft and green, only on him they are a hawk's eyes, scanning, hunting; both hungry and disinterested. 

"Flavius." Esca says.

"Esca." Flavius' voice betrays no hint of emotion. Esca shoots a worried glance at Marcus, but he looks contented enough, propped up in bed with a pristine copy of 'How The Mind Works' open on his lap. "I was just telling my son about a facility I know of. Back in the States. Specialises in cases like his. I've put in some phone calls, they can accommodate him. I can pay, of course."

Esca fights to keep his voice level. "I'm sure if that's what _Marcus_ wants, then he can pay for it himself. Just like he's had to pay for everything himself since he was 16 years old."

Flavius regards him; cold, unblinking. 

"Esca," Marcus' voice is heavy with annoyance. "Don't start. I've just seen my father for the first time since... the accident. He's just arrived. Can we not make a scene over a bunch of stuff that happened that I don't even remember."

Flavius' darkly hooded gaze sweeps over to Marcus. "Not the first time," he says softly.

"What?" Marcus asks.

“We saw each other yesterday,” Flavius says gently.

Marcus look confused. “Oh yeah…sorry Pop…I remember that.”

Flavius looks back at Esca. "See what I mean? He can barely remember anything from one moment to the next, he gets crippling headaches..."

"Headaches?" Esca asks Marcus sharply. "You didn't tell me you were still having headaches." He wonders how each time Marcus pushes him away, keeps things from him, is a stranger to him, can still snag and catch at his heart as much as the first time.

Flavius carries on as if Esca hasn't spoken, "...he clearly needs to be somewhere where they can understand his condition, where they can help him. Where they can offer him proper care. Stability."

Esca forces himself to meet that impervious gaze.

"I can give him stability."

"Esca, you're a homosexual former drug addict who spent his latter teenaged years in and out of care homes, on the streets, or worse. I highly doubt you are in a position to offer my son _stability_."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were such a paragon of stability yourself, with all your amazing parenting skills. Leaving Marcus to fend for himself when he was still pretty much a child. Stealing from him. Spending his inheritance on your dodgy business ventures. Selling everything that reminded him of his mother."

Flavius remains infuriatingly unaffected. "This isn't about me, Esca, or you. It's about Marcus. I'm simply trying to do what's best for my son."

"Who also happens to be _my husband_."

"Yes, well." Flavius gives a little impatient flick to his hand. "A mere technicality. And one I'm not sure they pay much heed to in the US."

"Fuck you," Esca says, coldly furious. "You're a real piece of work, you know that? Why don't you stop pretending you care about Marcus in any real way, and go back to whatever hole it was you crawled out of."

Marcus clears his throat loudly. "Excuse me," he says. They both turn to look at him. "There's no need to be nasty about it, Pop. I've said I'll look at this place you've found, and I'll look at it, OK?" He looks at Esca. "It might be a good idea."

Esca feels a hot lance of desperation run up his lungs, "Marcus, no, come on. You need to come home. That's where you'll get better. Home."

"I've said Marcus can come home with me tomorrow," Flavius interjects. "After all, that's the home he remembers."

"No," Esca cuts in savagely, "the home he remembers was repossessed by the bank when you went bankrupt. The home he remembers doesn't exist. He has a new home now. With me." He turns back to Marcus, reaches to touch his arm. “Come on, Marcus. Come home with me. We’ll figure this out together.”

“I don’t know you,” Marcus raises his hands defensively, keeping Esca at bay. "I've been talking with my dad, and I'm not really sure that's the best idea. I know you say it's my home, but I don't remember it. _I just don't remember it_."

Esca can feel Flavius watching him. He doesn't even appear smug. Just cold, blank, watching. 

"Yeah but, Marcus... I mean, logistically. All your stuff is at our house. All your clothes, books. All your physio equipment for your leg. Jesus, Marcus, it’s our house, it’s _your_ house. Where else would you go?”

"Home," Flavius repeats. "With me. And then to somewhere where they can look after him."

Marcus raises a hand to his forehead, rubs at it as if it hurts him, crunches his eyes shut.

"I guess.... That does make sense, Pop, if all my stuff is at Esca's hou... my house, I mean. I guess I could try it, just to start off with."

The relief Esca feels is swooping. 

Marcus opens his eyes, looks at him. "It's just... It's so weird, you're still a complete stranger to me."

"That's because he is a stranger to you," Flavius says coldly. "He's a stranger to me too. He could be anyone. Anyone at all."

"You seem to know quite a lot about me for someone who is apparently a stranger," Esca retorts hotly.

"Well, obviously when this _situation_ ," Flavius indicates Marcus and Esca, "first happened, when I heard my son was getting _married_ to a _man_ , I had my private investigator look into you. I sent the file to Marcus, but he apparently wasn't interested at the time. Maybe he'd be more interested now."

"See?" Esca says furiously, "See Marcus? This is the kind of man your father is, someone who, instead of being happy that you've found someone, that you're getting married, hires a private investigator to spy on the man you love. And this is really who you want to go and live with tomorrow?"

"The thing is, I don't know that you _are_ the man I love," Marcus says desperately. "I just don't know."

"Yes, indeed," Flavius says dryly. "It's hardly like you can prove it."

I can prove it, Esca thinks desperately. I can prove it in my heart, my blood. Marcus _loved_ me. Loves me. I know. _I know_. 

"I can prove it," he says, "This is from three weeks ago. Here. Listen." He pulls his phone out of his pocket, flicks through his voicemail messages, switches to loudspeaker. Marcus' voice fills the room, relaxed and gentle, the soft voice he used to keep just for Esca.

“Hi baby. Hope you had a good day, managed not to assault any potential buyers at the gallery." There’s the sound of Marcus’ laughter then, rich and warm like chili and chocolate. “I’m probably going to have to work late again, in the studio. Ugh. I miss you so much, I was just thinking about… well… Listen, any chance you can wait up for me? I need some, um, ‘Esca-time’, if you know what I mean? Ok, see you. Love you. Bye.”

Flavius' mouth gives a small twist of distaste. "Well, that certainly proves _something_."

Marcus is looking at Esca warily, but not entirely coldly. "OK," he says, "OK, I'll try. But I'm going to look into what my dad suggests. I just.. it might be for the best, you know?" He puts his hand to his head again, rubs over the shaved patch of hair. "I just... I need to figure out who I am."

"I can help you," Esca says, gently but ardently. "I can."

Marcus just looks at him sadly.

 

********

 

Later Esca lies in their quiet house, on Marcus' side of the bed. He supposes it's become his side now. It doesn't smell of Marcus anymore. He cradles his phone in the crook of his elbow. Hits play. Again.

_I need some, um, ‘Esca-time’, if you know what I mean? Ok, see you. Love you. Bye._

Then he scrolls back through the message. Then play.

_I need some, um, ‘Esca-time’, if you know what I mean? Ok, see you. Love you. Bye._

Again.

_I need some, um, ‘Esca-time’, if you know what I mean? Ok, see you. Love you. Bye._

Again.

_I need some, um, ‘Esca-time’, if you know what I mean? Ok, see you. Love you. Bye._

Marcus' voice, warm and cool at the same time, like a balm.

_I need some, um, ‘Esca-time’, if you know what I mean? Ok, see you. Love you. Bye._

_Love you. Bye._

_Love you. Bye._

_Love you. Bye._

_Bye._

_Bye._

_Bye._

Esca hits delete.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus is in an accident and loses all memory of Esca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None for this part, really. Bad language. General angsting.

The doctor who first told him about Marcus' amnesia pulls Esca to one side while Marcus is being discharged.

"You need to go slow with him, OK?" 

They're standing near the site of that first conversation, by the drinks machine. It feels like forever ago. It feels like no time at all. It feels like only yesterday he and Marcus were running through the snow, laughing, opening the doors to the car. Slow, fast - time seems to have no meaning for him anymore.

"Yeah, sure," Esca says listlessly.

"I mean it, Esca," she says. "Go slow. His memory is like... It's like a blank photograph album. You’re going to want to replace all the pictures, but it’s important to let him go slow, create new ones, ones of his own."

Esca shrugs, nods.

"I can't stress how important it is to take it easy, not just for his sake, but for yours as well. It will be incredibly emotionally draining for both of you if you keep trying to tell him what he should remember, how he should be. Go slow. Work backwards. Allow him to unravel himself."

"And if I do that, then one day..." Esca can't bring himself to finish the sentence. 

The doctor touches his arm gently. "There are some cases of complete spontaneous recovery, although it’s very rare. He probably never will regain all his memories, and he will have some difficulties with new ones; he'll be easily confused, he'll lose his temper quickly... To begin with it will be more like being around someone with dementia, and I can't guarantee it will get better. Although if he keeps up his therapy, his counseling, there's every chance that there will be some improvement."

"So you're telling me he's not going to wake up tomorrow and everything will be alright." Esca says dryly. "Thanks. I had kind of figured that one out."

The doctor regards him almost skeptically for a long moment, before her face melts back into sympathy. "You need to be prepared, Esca. It's going to be a long slog. It’s not like how it is in the movies."

"Films," Esca corrects absently, feeling a stab of pained panic

"You need to be careful with him, gentle. The temptation is to tell him, to show him, to try and fill in all his gaps – but there’s no evidence that helps. Really, it's just about patience. Most patients _do_ improve," she repeats empathically. 

Esca feels himself looking at her blankly. He can barely concentrate on what she's saying. _Word words words_ , he thinks. You use words every day. How can you use words to ruin someone’s life?

 

*******

 

Marcus limps towards the car across the cold concrete, leaning heavily on his crutch. 

"Is it always this bad?" he mutters, gesticulating at his thigh.

"No," Esca says, "No, it's normally fine. You barely even have a limp."

"Right, so I hit my head and my leg gets messed up. Brilliant. Typical."

"The consultant said-"

"I know what the consultant said, Esca," Marcus snaps. "Blah, blah, blah, brain injury, blah, blah, blah, learning to rebalance, improvement, patience, blah, blah."

"You weren't this cranky before either," Esca mutters. Marcus manages a wry smile. 

"Here we are." Esca pauses by the car, and rummages in his pocket for the keys. 

"I'll drive," Marcus says.

"Can you drive?" Esca asks doubtfully.

"Yes, I can drive. I haven't lost the ability to do _anything_ useful."

"OK. Sorry."

Esca tries not to think about the last time Marcus was driving. Marcus leaning in to kiss him. Marcus looking at him like he was precious, special. Light, noise. 

"So, um, I thought we might grab some early dinner at the Cuban place," Esca says.

"Cuban place?"

"Oh, yeah, right - you don't remember. It's your favourite," Esca tells him.

"OK." Marcus looks nonplused. "You'll need to give me directions."

"You do _like_ Cuban food, right?"

Marcus shrugs. "Sure, yeah. I guess. I'm not actually sure I've had it."

"You've had it," Esca says grimly. "It's your favourite."

"OK, sure." Marcus shrugs again, smiles.

Esca thinks about what the doctor said: _patience_.

 

*****

 

**Things Marcus Has Forgotten #78,623**  
_The Cuban Place_

It's raining, it's a Wednesday, and Esca has had a shit day at the gallery. It's one of those days where the old Esca would have gone out and drunk whiskey until he couldn't feel his feet anymore. Maybe something a little harder than whiskey. Maybe until he couldn't feel anything.

"Shall we go out for dinner tonight?" he asks. He needs to go out, do something. 

"Yeah," Marcus says enthusiastically, as he does whenever there's mention of food. "The usual place? I haven't had boliche in, like, forever."

"You're such a bad American," Esca says dryly.

Marcus bristles. "I _am not_ ," he says reflexively, "Anyway, how so?"

"Your love affair with Cuban culture. You're probably secretly a Communist sympathizer. I'm surprised you haven't put a Castro poster up in your bedroom."

"That's rich, coming from you. When I met you you were living in a squat-"

"Commune," Esca corrects.

"Sorry, _commune_ in Glasgow with a Swedish dope dealer with a penchant for second hand military hats and a woman who dyed her hair with henna and used to keep chickens in the bathroom."

"Your point being? Anyway, that was before I met you, and got access to all your lovely money. I'm a totally reformed member of the bourgeoisie now."

Marcus elbows him good naturedly. "You're such a dick."

"Come on, let's go and get you some of your contraband sausages." Esca wiggles his hips suggestively. "If you're very lucky, you might get some of my contraband sausage when we get home."

"I've said it once and I'll say it again: you're a dick."

Esca smiles and nudges his converse against Marcus' boot. "Just one of my many admirable qualities."

"Hmmm," Marcus looks him over. He tilts his head to one side. "You OK?" Some how Marcus always knows, with Esca, even when no one else could tell that anything was off, Marcus knows.

"Yeah, you know," Esca shrugs. "Nothing Cuban food can't fix. Come on, let's race, loser has to buy the winner a beer."

Marcus holds his gaze for a long, warm moment. "I love you," he says simply.

Even though Esca will never get tired of hearing it, ever, ever; even though it's exactly what he needs to hear on a rainy Wednesday, he does his normal thing, rolls his eyes. "Aw, honey, you’re so regional." He pats Marcus' cheek sympathetically, and then bolts for the door.

 

*************

 

It's the most awkward meal in history. Easily the worst date Esca's ever been on. And it's with his _husband_. 

Esca doesn't know what to talk about. All their collective history is gone, erased. And he can still hear the doctor telling him not to talk about the past too much, not to try and fill in all of Marcus' gaps. But the problem is, without that... He has nothing to say to Marcus Aquila. He'd stupidly thought it would be like meeting Marcus again for the first time, like that first moment they'd seen each other. He thought that all that heat, the brooding angry passion, would still be there. And then, later: the talking, the touching, the discovering, the falling in love. But this isn't even that Marcus, the Marcus he met back in 2007. This is a different Marcus altogether. This is a Marcus who was barely out of school, who was angry with the world, who was about to join the army, who believed in capital punishment, who was in complete denial about his sexuality. And Esca has nothing - _nothing_ \- in common with this Marcus. 

He can barely taste his pastelitos through the acrid tang of fear in his mouth. What if... Even if Marcus stays with him... _He doesn't even know this man_. What if, even if Marcus stays with him, it's not the same, it's not - will never be - what they had, or anything even remotely approximating it. Maybe he should just cut his losses. But to his horror, Esca realises he is still so desperately in love with this man, this _stranger_ , that he would stay with him anyway, he would wait forever, for just a tiny glimpse of the guy that Marcus used to be. Esca is in love with someone he doesn't know. Doesn't even like.

He rings Doug in the toilet.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea," he mutters, "You and Fe being at the flat this evening. He's... He's really different." 

He can hear laughter and music in the background, power ballads - Marcus' iPod probably. The talons curl mercilessly into his heart.

"Erm.... Well we can leave if you like? Sassy and Stephen are here too. We're all... Everyone really wants to see him. But if you think it would be better for us to go, we can go. That's cool. If you want some time just the two of you."

The idea of spending the entire rest of the night looking into the blank face of the man he loves, and finding he has nothing to say, fills Esca with horror.

"No, it's fine," he says. "It's fine, stay. I'll see you in a bit."

 

*********

 

Esca lets them in to the front lobby, calls the lift so Marcus won't have to hobble up the staircase.

"Wow," Marcus says, looking around. "This is pretty plush."

"Yeah," Esca says, punching the button for the top floor.

"We've got the penthouse?"

"Yeah."

"Niice. That's some pad we've got here. It's good to see I did pretty well for myself." Marcus pats himself on the back, and Esca manages a weak smile.

"Or is it you who's done well?" he asks.

"No, it's mainly you," Esca says slowly. Marcus gives him a funny sideways look, and Esca can't bear to think what Flavius might have said to him, what he might have told him about Esca's supposed motivations for being with Marcus. He wonders if Flavius still has that file on him. He wonders if Marcus has read it. But what can he say? That he never even wanted this fancy apartment? That he'd have been happy living with Marcus in a grotty studio somewhere? That he would have loved him even if he'd been penniless and hopeless, like Esca had been? No. So he says nothing.

 

*********

 

**Things Marcus has forgotten #873**  
_Buying the flat_

"This place is amazing," Marcus says for about the 11th time, running his hand appreciatively along the polished granite of the breakfast bar. Esca is slumped against the doorway, hands stuffed into his pockets.

"Yes. Amazing. And amazingly expensive. It's totally out of my budget. I don't know why you've even brought me here."

"Esca," Marcus starts, "We've been through this. You can just pay whatever you can afford, and I'll-"

Esca cuts him off with an exasperated sigh. "No, Marcus, no. I don't want that. It won't be my place then, it will be your place. I'll feel like I'm staying here by your good graces, that you're my patron or something. It's bad enough you're lending me the money to get Fe and I started with the gallery."

"It will be _our_ place, Esca, because we'll be in it," Marcus says, his tone conciliatory. Esca hates it when he speaks to him as if he's little better than a stroppy teenager, acting out.

"I don't want your charity. I know my situation wasn't... _ideal_ when I met you, but I had my own life, I can make my own way, I can..." he says gruffly.

"Esca, shhh," Marcus says, walking towards him and touching his arm.

Esca shrugs him off angrily. "Don't shhhh me! This is real! This is... you can't just, I'm not your little pet project or something! If I don't want to live somewhere that I can't afford, then you can't just ride roughshod over everything we've talked about! Fuck's sake."

Marcus ducks his head, rubs at the back of his thick neck like he does when he's stressed about something. "Sorry. I said that all wrong. What I meant was, I don't care where we live, here, or in some shitty bedsit - my home is wherever you are. You're my home, Esca, you. Finding you... Finding you was like coming home for me."

He looks Esca square in the face, his eyes melting and khaki coloured. Touches his arm again.

"Well, I can't be mad at you when you say sappy shit like that," Esca says with mock affront, but he lets Marcus pull him into the warm circle of his arms, lets his head nudge against Marcus' shoulder. They stand like that for a bit. The comfort of Marcus. The smell of him. It works like an opiate for Esca, soothing, calming, pushing away pain.

"However, having said that... It would be nice if you came with a double en suite and a roof terrace." Marcus pulls back slightly, raising one eyebrow, looking as if he half fears Esca might hit him.

"It _is_ a nice roof terrace," Esca concedes grudgingly. 

"It's a very nice roof terrace."

He reaches down to squeeze Esca's bum.

"It's a nice ass too," he adds.

"It's a _very_ nice ass," Esca corrects.

"Agreed."

Marcus rubs his hands down over Esca's buttocks, cups them with his big, blunt fingers, pulls Esca up for a kiss. All these things he knows Esca likes. 

"If I didn't know you for a gentleman, Aquila, I'd think you were trying to use sex to get your way."

"Would I do that?" Marcus asks, all innocence. "Anyway, I can't help it if you're cute when you're being stubborn."

"Which is all the time."

"Which is all the time," Marcus confirms.

They kiss some more. Marcus gropes him shamelessly through his jeans, even though the estate agent is probably only outside in the corridor somewhere, having a fag most likely, and could come back in at any moment.

"OK," Esca says, when Marcus finally releases his mouth.

"OK, what?"

"OK, this can be our home."

Marcus grins at him.

"And don't look so fucking smug, or I'll change my mind again."

Marcus pulls him back into a hug, places his warm lips against the top of Esca's head.

"We'll be so happy here, baby," he says gently. "So happy. I promise."

****

Esca can hear the guitar heavy thrum of Journey oozing gently from around the door as he fumbles with the lock. Marcus raises an eyebrow at him.

"Noisy neighbours?"

"No, it's just, um..." Esca can feel a prickle of sweat sting between his shoulder blades. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. "Just a couple of friends, our friends, uh, your friends. They wanted to..."

Marcus is regarding his quizzically, head cocked to one side, looking as if he's about to say something, but the next second the door gets yanked back from where Esca is struggling with it, and Fiona is there, her bright pink hair intent on escaping from the neat bun she wears for work, an explosion of music and chatter spilling out from the apartment behind her. She makes a big show of elbowing Esca out of the way with pantomime disinterest before pulling a somewhat shell-shocked looking Marcus into a bear hug. 

"Marky!" she sighs with happiness, running her tiny hands up his back. "You've gotten so skinny. Macs will not be happy. He likes his men on the beefy side these days."

"I, uh," Marcus has gone rigid in her grasp, but he slowly raises his hands to place gently on her shoulders. "I'm sorry, I don't know who you are. I take it we're...close."

Fiona pulls back, grinning. "We're practically best friends. You adore me. Probably because I'm the coolest person you know."

Esca manages a snort at that; Marcus and Fiona are constantly bickering, Marcus holding her responsible for encouraging all of Esca's bad habits. Then Doug's there behind Fiona, clapping one hand onto Marcus' shoulder.

"Don't listen to what this one is telling you, she's a pathological liar. I should know, I'm married to the little witch. _I'm_ your favourite."

"Oh, hi." Esca watches Marcus raise and flex his hands, unsure whether to return Doug's familar greeting, or offer a hand to shake in something more formal. He looks awkward, unhappy, _different_. Esca knows Marcus can be shy sometimes, but the outside, the front, is always charming and polished, sophisticated, at ease. He thinks again: _I don't know who this man is_. Doug and Fiona are already tugging Marcus into the flat, and soon Marcus is surrounded by a what seems like a sea of their friends. Sassy and Stephen, Quinton and Claude, Lucas, Marcie, Guernsey, Paul and Cass. Where did all these people even come from? Esca is going to kill Fiona.

"We were at the hospital, like, every day," Sassy is saying. "But Macs didn't want us to overwhelm you."

"Every day," Stephen reiterates. "We missed you. Place isn't the same without you." He too pulls Marcus into an embrace, seeming not to notice the tense way Marcus is holding his spine, bending out of every hug, the shuttered look in his eyes. "Dude, you've lost so much weight. And cut all your hair off."

"I like it," Claude says archly, running the backs of his fingers down Marcus' bicep, oblivious to the fact that Marcus practically shivers with distaste. "I think he looks delicious. You could do catwalk, darling. If it doesn't work out at the studio with you still thinking it's the 90s, and hence probably signing some Boyz II Men tribute band, I definitely think you could do catwalk."

Quinton laughs. "Oh God, I hadn't even thought of that! As if his music taste wasn't bad enough as it is. Doug, you can't let him back in the studio. Not 'til he's spent a good few months solidly listening to 6music," he nudges Marcus' shoulder good naturedly, "do you remember when you became obsessed with that terrible band from Slough or something? What was their name, Doug?"

"Bubonic Sound Plague."

"God, that was it. Shocking. You and Doug practically came to blows over it. Do you remember?"

"No, I, uh..." Marcus is scanning the party desperately, his eyes searching for an escape route as far as Esca can tell. 

"Probably just as well. Let's hope that's something which stays forgotten."

"Sit down, Marcus, you look tired," Marcie is saying. "Esca said your leg is playing up again? I can give you the number for my physio if you like, he's amazing. I'm Marcie by the way."

"Do I work with you as well?" Marcus asks faintly, allowing himself to be guided down on to the sofa. Marcie laughs.

"Ha, no! We met at University. I'm a chef. Taught you everything you know about haute cuisine. I'm basically responsible for Esca agreeing to marry you. The way to a man's heart and all that. If you tell me you've forgotten how to make crepe suzette you're going to kill me."

Lucas leans over the back of the sofa and loops an arm around Marcus' neck.

"Aquila! Dude, we've missed you. Five a side hasn't been the same without you."

Marcus shrugs him off and stands up suddenly, raising his palms in front of him in an unconscious defensively gesture. 

"I... Sorry, I... Excuse me." 

Then he turns and practically runs from the room.

Fiona gives Esca an _oh shit_ sort of grimace. 

"Is he alright?" Lucas asks. "Should I go talk to him?"

"No, uh..." Esca starts. "I think - you know - he's not really himself at the moment. It's probably best if he just has some time to adjust, I mean that's what they said at the hospital. It might be better if..." he trails off, miserably. 

He remembers hosting parties here before, Marcus laughing, Marcus smiling, Marcus touching people, eyes warm with kindness, Marcus in the middle of everything, in the middle of everything: Marcus. Hoisting Lucas over his shoulder, smoothing the hair back behind Sassy's ear. Marcus. Switching off Esca's painstakingly compiled party playlist to put some awful 80s soft rock on. Claude, catty as ever, " _Under no circumstances should this man be in charge of a recording studio_." Marcus bringing in tray after tray of delicious homemade vol-au-vents. Curling his fingers into Marcus' warm belly. " _Careful, you'll get fat, and then I won't love you anymore_." Marcus dancing on the roof terrace, the surprising grace of his body in motion, that thing he used to do with his hips, that roll, that would drive Esca insane. Being desperate for the guests to leave so they could have at each other, rubbing each other off against the door frame, drunk and horny, the smell of beer and the warm earth of Marcus' skin. _"I don't want to kiss you if you've been smoking." "You'll have to think of something else to do with your mouth then, won't you?"_

But now the idea of their guests leaving, of being left alone in this flat with this stranger-who-isn't-Marcus is terrifying. Even more so because Esca can see how wrong he's got this evening, how badly wrong, how much he's fucked this up.

"We'll just leave you two to it," Sassy says sympathetically. 

"Thank you all for coming," Esca says dully. "I'm sorry it ended early."

They're all looking at him with faces tight with sympathy. It reminds Esca of the looks people gave him after his family died. He can't stand it.

"You OK?" Fiona asks him on the way out. 

"Sure. I, uh..." He doesn't even have the energy to lie to her. She pats his arm.

"I'll bring Cub round tomorrow morning, OK? Before work. Give you a lift to the gallery?"

"Yeah, yeah."

Marcus is sitting stiffly on the bed in their room, staring blankly out the window. He doesn't even look round when Esca comes in. Esca starts to walk to the bed, then hesitates. Thinks of all the ways he used to make Marcus forgive him. Feels acid swilling in his guts. Swallows.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

"What do you think?" Marcus' tone is rigid with barely controlled anger. 

Esca sighs. "I know. It's a lot to take in..." he starts.

Marcus turns his head to look at Esca then, green eyes cool and glassy, full mouth pursed tight with annoyance. 

"No. That wasn't 'a lot to take in'. A lot to take in would've been coming home, to a strange apartment, with a man I don't know. That would be a lot to take in. But coming home to all of that, plus a house full of people pulling on me, and hugging me, _crying in my face_. Talking about more shit that I don't remember. That's not a lot to take in, that's total bullshit."

Esca raises his hands placatingly, takes another step towards the bed. "You're right. I'm sorry, I'd spoken with Fe, and... It was only supposed to be a few people. It all got a bit out of hand. But they all wanted to see you, they-"

"Esca, I don't even know those people. I couldn't care less what they do and don't want."

Esca feels a small tug of annoyance pull at his contrition. "Marcus. That's not really fair. Those people are your friends, _our_ friends, they've been good to you. Lucas was your housemate at University, he was your best man at our-"

Marcus exhales noisily, presses both his palms flat against the sides of his head. "Will you please just get out?" He pronounces each word separately, through gritted teeth.

"Are you OK?"

"No. As we just discussed I'm not fucking OK. I seem to be married to a social retard, and on top of that I have a splitting headache."

"Do you want-"

"I want you to get out, that's what I want."

Esca can feel that tight, miserable feeling settling in his chest, as if it's taken roost there. The familiar jab of a hooked beak straight into his heart. "Marcus, I'm sorry..."

Marcus lets out a growl of frustration. "Are you honestly not gonna leave me alone?"

"Sorry. Yes. Sorry. I'm sorry."

Marcus sighs again, covers his eyes with his hands. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. But he doesn't take his hands away. Doesn't look at Esca. "I just need to be alone right now."

"Sorry." Esca doesn't think he's ever used that word so many times in one sentence, certainly not to Marcus.

_"Do you ever apologise?"_

_"No."_

_"What if I don't forgive you?"_

_"You'll forgive me. You can't help yourself."_

"Sorry." Esca walks out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

 

After a terrible night on the sofa, which, despite all the times Esca's accidentally fallen asleep on it in front of the television, turns out to be deceptively uncomfortable when _trying_ to sleep, Esca wakes up to the sound of someone leaning on the buzzer. 

"Alright, aright." He shuffles over to the intercom, trying to rub what feels like a cat's cradle of knots out of the back of his neck.

"Special delivery."

"Come on up."

The minutes he opens the door, Cub hurls himself joyfully ay Esca's legs, barking delightedly. Esca squats down, rubs his fingers into the comforting sleekness of Cub's thick ruff. Fiona is looking at him considerably less happily.

"You're not even dressed." 

Esca wonders at how she manages to look so disapproving while sporting bright pink hair, multiple nose piercings and more purple eyeshadow than half the cast of a drag revue. 

"I'll be there in an hour. Go on without me."

"Esca-"

"I'll be there," he snaps.

Then he stands up, sighs. "I'm sorry, Fe. Rough night. Operation Make Marcus Fall In Love With Me Again is not going to plan. As you may have noticed."

Fiona regards him narrowly. "Hmmmm. Well, I was frankly a little stunned he went for you the first time. If anything, you've become less attractive."

"Thanks. Great." Cub is still licking contently at one of his hands, and Esca suddenly, stupidly, feels like he might cry. 

Fiona is still scowling at him, but something softens behind her eyes. "One hour Mac. I mean it. I can't manage it anymore without you."

"I'll be there."

He's just shut the door when Marcus ambles in, wearing an old pair of tracksuit bottoms and one of Esca's t-shirts. With a howl of pure pleasure Cub races towards Marcus, ecstatic to be reunited with his favourite person in the whole world. Marcus drops into an awkward crouch, immediately going to pet Cub behind his silky ears as Cub licks at any part of Marcus he can reach, his whole body quivering with joy.

“Hey!” Marcus is saying delightedly, “Hey, puppy!”

"You remember him?" Esca asks, feeling a tiny spark of hope catch and flare in his chest.

"No," Marcus says, still grinning goofily at Cub. "But he remembers me. Don't you boy? Don't you boy? Aren't you gorgeous? Aren't you the world's most gorgeous dog?"

If only it was as easy for Esca to be welcomed back into Marcus’ heart

 

**Things that Marcus has forgotten #2,357**  
_Buying Cub_

“So… are we going to talk about what having this puppy really means?” Marcus asks Esca, eyes dark green and serious.

“You mean – how we can never leave the house again without worrying that when we return to it the fridge door will be chewed off its hinges and we’ll have no cushions left?”

“No…you know…the other thing. The adopting thing.”

“Ah," Esca says. "You mean if we don’t kill the dog, then we might be ready not to kill a baby.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know," Esca says slowly. "There’s a lot of differences between having a baby and having a dog.”

“Yes,” Marcus agrees, and gesticulates widely around the grotty bar they're sitting in. “We’d be very bad parents if we fucked off to the pub and just left the baby unattended.”

“ Yeah. And if the baby wees on the sofa is it acceptable to rub its little face into it? NO! BAD BABY!”

“Probably not,” Marcus gives him that slow, lopsided smile that does strange, dangerous things to Esca's stomach. 

“Although, I swear, if it gets its chubby, jammy little hands on my LP collection…”

"Why would our baby have jammy hands?" Marcus raises one eyebrow at him.

"I don’t know. Babies’ hands are always covered in jam. And snot. Jam and snot."

"Is this what your childhood was like, growing up in the North? Constantly covered in your own filth? It sounds horrific."

"Yes. My mother fed me exclusively on jam and snot. And coal."

"But you know, we were happy in those days, though we were poor, by gum," Marcus says, doing his appalling imitation of a Yorkshire accent. "We used to ‘ave to get up ev’ry morning and LICK road clean wit’ tongue, eat ‘alf a handful o’ freezin’ cold gravel, work twenty-four hours a day at t’ mill for fourpence every six years, and when we got home, our Da would thrash us to sleep with his belt, if we were LUCKY!"

"Mercy! Please!" Esca presses his hands against his ears and rolls his eyes. "If you go through the whole sketch again I might be forced to chew off my own tongue for light relief."

"Are you criticizing my totally awesome British accent?" Marcus makes his mock-affronted face.

"Marcus, there is no such thing as a “British” accent. For the last time. A Scot does not sound like an Welshman."

"You should be happy that I’ve totally embraced Monty Python."

"I am happy. But I’m not surprised. It’s exactly the kind of geeky shit you’re not-so-secretly in to." Esca takes a measured gulp of his beer and tips back on the hind legs of his bar stool, only just realising in time that Marcus has hooked a foot round one of the legs, and managing to slam it back down to the ground. 

He scowls across at Marcus. “Childish.”

Marcus grins at him. "See, you can do all the disciplining. You’re totally ready."

Esca finds himself smiling back at him. "Yeah. I think I’m ready."

And then, he doesn’t normally go into public demonstrations of affection when they’re in the presence of strangers because it still makes Marcus so uncomfortable, but he reaches out one hand to brush the back of his knuckles against the softness of Marcus’ cheek, feeling the wedding band rasp against his stubble, feeling his knuckles fit into the indents of Marcus’ dimples. He loves this man, he thinks. He loves him in ways he can’t explain. Sometimes, just knowing that Marcus Aquila exists and is in the world is enough to make him ache with joy. “I think we’re ready.”

And Marcus turns his face and places an awkward sideways kiss on the back of Esca’s hand. “Me too. So let’s prepare ourselves for three years of going blind with paperwork.”

“Joy,” Esca says sarcastically, but they are both smiling at each other, so pleased, and excited, and scared, that for a while it feels to Esca like he will never be able to stop smiling.


End file.
